The Mammoth Book of Best British Mysteries (75 page)

He looked so smug and self satisfied, I offered another little prayer, this time for a thunderbolt to come down and destroy him.

At the same moment we both heard a distant bang, like a birthday balloon being punctured. Perhaps God had taken aim and missed.

For a moment nothing happened, then came the distant shrill of an alarm bell.

Gospill sat looking at me for a moment then he rose.

“Wait there,” he commanded and went to the door.

He closed it firmly behind him but I didn’t hear a lock click.

After a little while I stood up, went to the door and opened it a crack.

I could see Gospill at the end of the corridor. He was talking to a uniformed sergeant who had a phone to his ear.

I opened the door a little further so I could hear them.

“What’s going on, sarge?” I heard Gospill ask.

“Not sure, sir. Just checking it out. Think there’s been an explosion.”

“I gathered that!” snapped the DI. “Where?”

“Hang about, sir, I’m getting something now . . . yes . . . yes . . . you’re sure? So no evacuation . . . that’s good . . . that’s very good . . . OK,
thanks.”

He switched off his phone and said to Gospill, “It’s OK, sir, Seems a device went off, and there’s been a bit of a fire and quite a lot of damage, but it’s all been
confined to one room and no one’s hurt. So no panic and we can stay put. Reckon someone’s head’s going to roll though. Doesn’t look good, letting a bomber get right into the
heart of the Yard!”

A pause, then Gospill asked too casually, “Whose room?”

Even at a distance I could here the tremolo in his voice.

“Not absolutely sure, sir, but they think it was Commander Grisewood’s. Made a right mess from the sound of it. All those lovely water colours his missus did and he was so proud of,
they’ll have gone. Oh, someone’s in real trouble, believe me!”

I closed the door quietly and went back to my seat.

Things were looking better. I’d been very stupid but there wasn’t a commandment saying
Thou shalt not be stupid.
And now with nothing of what I’d said so far on tape,
and all the physical evidence against me probably burning merrily away with the Commander’s desk, all I needed to do was continue to look stupid and say nothing.

Thank you, Dad’s God. You came through!

The Ghote novel Gospill had produced still lay on the table.

I picked it up and looked at the author photo.

No longer could I see much resemblance to the plausible crook who all those years ago had touched on my family’s life then gone on his way. Probably he’d been dead for years.

Jerry Raine

The day’s work was over and the sun was sinking on the horizon. Inside the kitchen Woody Granger was eating supper on his own. He usually ate with the Cutter family but
he’d been late coming back from the field where he’d been fixing fences all day and the family were next door in the living room playing cards. Woody preferred eating on his own though.
He wasn’t much of a conversationalist. Never had been, never would be. He was a sixteen-year-old orphan drifting through Tennessee, getting work where he could.

He finished his cup of coffee and carried his dishes to the sink. The living room door opened and Harold Cutter came in. He was a large red-faced man with thick hairy arms and a belly that hung
over the belt of his jeans. Woody was a bit scared of him because he could never tell what kind of mood his employer would be in. Sometimes they would joke together, and other times, when either
the work was too hard or the sun too hot, they would nearly come to blows.

“Do you want to come with me tonight Woody?” Harold asked, as he made his way to the pantry.

Finishing his dishes, Woody said over his shoulder, “Okay,” when he really wanted to be going back to his room.

Harold came out of the pantry carrying a bucket with a chopper and two large knives inside. Woody’s heart dipped. He dried his hands and Harold pointed to a lantern that was sitting on the
table. “Carry please,” he said, then they walked out into the yard.

At the sound of the screen-door slamming, six dogs sprang out from under bushes and chairs and came running towards their master with heads bowed low and tales wagging. Woody smiled at them and
patted Mickey, the eldest.

“Are we taking the horses?” Woody asked.

“No, we’ll walk,” Harold said. “The sheep are only in the home paddock.”

Woody was disappointed. He always liked riding, especially at night. He walked alongside Harold and threw sticks for the dogs. His favourite was Snowy, who was in fact black. He also had a soft
spot for Skunk, a grey and white streaked dog who was permanently chained at the back of the house. Skunk was a sheep killer and was very rarely let off his leash.

Ten minutes later and they were at the home paddock. Harold unlocked the gate and they all went through, the dogs getting excited when they saw the hundred or so sheep in the distance.

They walked to a large tree in the centre of the field. The tree had no leaves and the branches were wrinkled and crooked like the fingers of an old man. Hanging from one of the branches was a
large hook and the bottom of the trunk was stained with dried blood. Harold left his bucket by the tree and called out to the dogs.

“Get back! Get back! Fetch ’em up! Fetch ’em up!”

The dogs ran towards the herd, some going right and some going left. They got right behind the sheep and barked at them and nipped their legs. The herd moved slowly forward.

Harold and Woody waited by the tree. The sun was almost down and soon it would be dark. Woody lit the lantern and hung it from a branch.

“Just watch what I do this time,” Harold said, “and next time you can have a go yourself. Just give me the knives when I tell you.”

Woody had only been working on the farm for six months. He’d been down on his luck, sitting in a bar in town, wondering where to go to next, when he’d overheard a conversation about
work. He’d walked the five miles to the Kerren Ranch and started work straight away. He was the only person the Cutters employed.

Woody watched as the sheep came nearer and soon they were surrounding the tree with no escape, the dogs keeping them in a neat circle.

Harold walked into the middle of them still calling to the dogs, but not so loudly now. He pushed and prodded, looking for the right sheep, then grabbed one round the neck and dragged it over to
the tree.

“Okay, Woody,” he said.

Woody took one of the large carving knives from the bucket and gave it to him. Harold had the sheep lying backwards between his legs with his strong hands around its neck. He took the knife and
started cutting into its throat. It made a crunching noise as it cut through the main arteries and Woody winced as he saw the blood coming out. It ran dark red down the sheep’s stomach and
then as the knife went deeper it started to bubble in the deep cut and now and then a small fountain would squirt on to the ground. The sheep’s eyes stayed open for what seemed like a long
time and then they shut and Harold let the body fall. It lay on the ground with the blood spreading into the ground, and then its back legs twitched and then the animal was still.

Harold wiped his bloody hands on a tuft of grass and went back to find another sheep. He killed this one the same way and then he told the dogs to back away. The sheep slowly wandered back to
where they had been before, minus their two friends that lay at the foot of the tree.

Woody watched Harold go to work on the sheep. His arms were now covered with blood as he chopped off the two heads. Then he skinned the two animals by slitting open their bellies. The dogs were
sniffing and looking anxiously, eager for the innards that Harold would eventually give them.

“Give me a hand here, Woody,” Harold said. Together they lifted the first sheep and hung it upside down from the hanging hook. Woody turned away from the smell as Harold cut out the
stomach, bright green chewed grass falling from a split. He threw it to the dogs along with the intestines. The dogs gathered around hungrily and ripped the flesh to bits. Woody was disappointed to
see Snowy joining in the fun.

Harold continued cleaning out the carcass and took it off the hook and laid it out on an old rug that was lying behind the tree. Then they hooked up the second sheep and Harold went to work
again.

“It’s pretty easy,” he said, “once you get used to the smell. The smell’s the worst bit.”

“Yeah, it doesn’t smell too good,” Woody said.

They took down the second sheep when the carcass was clean and placed it alongside the other one on the rug. They also placed the two skins on there. Although they were bloody and dirty they
would be put on the shed roof and later on when they were dried out and stiff, they would be sold.

They each took a corner of the rug and started pulling it and the sheep back towards the farm. It was slow going and Harold kept shouting at the dogs to move away as they were now getting
interested in the good meat.

“I usually just kill one sheep,” Harold said, “but with you here I can pull an extra one back. When we’ve eaten this lot I’ll let you kill the next two.”

Great
, Woody thought to himself.
I’ll be looking forward to that.

When they were back at the farm they lifted the carcasses on to one of the water tanks where they would be out of reach of the dogs. They would stay there until morning when Harold would cut
them into smaller chunks and his wife Molly would then put them into storage.

From a tap in the garden the two of them washed their hands and shook them dry. They stood in the kitchen light that came across the veranda. The dogs had crept back to their bushes and chairs
to sleep.

“You can knock off now, Woody,” said Harold. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

Woody said okay, and tried to smile, but the dead sheep smell was still with him. Harold sensed how he was feeling and grinned.

“You’ll get used to it,” he said, and patted him on the back.

Woody went back to his room, but before he reached it, he doubled over and puked in the bushes outside.

The next day Woody was back in the field fixing fences again. He was wearing a hat to keep the sun off his face. Just last year, on one of the other farms he’d worked on,
he’d been digging a ditch all day and telling the time by looking at the sun. When he’d returned to his lodgings he’d had a terrible pain in his eyes, like someone had thrown sand
in them. Much to the amusement of the other workers he’d spent the whole of the next day lying in a darkened room. They’d told him he had sunstroke. Eventually the pain had disappeared,
but he’d learnt his lesson.

At lunchtime, Woody saw a horse approaching, and as it came nearer, he was pleased to see the rider was Harold’s daughter Jane. She was fifteen years old, pretty, with long blonde hair.
She climbed down off her small horse, and carried over a bag of lunch for him.

“Hello,” Woody said shyly. “How are you?”

“Fine, Woody,” said Jane. “Have you recovered from last night?”

Woody decided to play it dumb. “Recovered from what?”

Jane handed him the bag of food. She was wearing a white dress with a flower pattern on it, a straw hat on her head. “The killing of the sheep. I heard you puking after.”

Woody felt embarrassed. Jane’s room was just behind his. He shrugged. “So I puked. So what?”

“You’ll never be a farmer if you can’t kill a sheep.”

“Who says I want to be a farmer?”

“What are you doing here if you don’t want to be a farmer?”

“I need the money. When I’ve saved a bit I’ll do something else. Like maybe rustle cattle. Or rob trains.”

Jane laughed. “Just keep dreaming, Woody. We all need our dreams. I have to get back. My dad said to come straight home.”

Woody watched Jane walk back to her horse and climb on. He looked down at the lunch bag and started opening it.

“Woody?”

He looked up and Jane was still sitting on her horse. Only now she had her skirt pulled high up on her thigh and she was rubbing her leg. “Do you think I have nice legs?” she
asked.

Woody was so shocked he didn’t know what to say.

“If you kill a sheep for me, Woody, I’ll let you see more,” and then her dress fell back into place and she was riding away.

Woody was stunned. He looked at Jane until she was almost out of sight. Then he looked down at his lunch bag but he didn’t feel so hungry any more.

Woody kept thinking about Jane’s leg for the rest of the day. What did she mean exactly by saying she’d let him see more? Was she going to let him go the whole way? He was still a
virgin and wasn’t sure he knew exactly what to do. Maybe he should just forget the whole thing. Maybe she was just leading him on. And what did she mean by “kill a sheep for me”?
Was this some kind of test of his manliness? Or was she trying to lead him into trouble?

Woody worked hard on the fence and then started walking home. At the dinner table that night he couldn’t keep his eyes off Jane. She kept smiling at him and even winked one time. Her
younger brother Billy did most of the talking, so Harold and Molly were easily distracted.

When the dishes were done Woody went back to his room. Evening times always passed slowly. His room was only big enough for a bed and a wardrobe and was right next to the back veranda. On the
other side of the veranda was the washer room, and several times he had watched Jane in there, washing clothes in the sink.

He still thought of her words. “Kill a sheep for me.” What was that meant to mean? Was he meant to bring the body back to her room and lay it out in front of her? What kind of a sick
person was she? Or would just the head be enough? Bring me the head of a sheep and I’ll let you see my body. He wished she’d been clearer in her intentions. He lay on his bed and looked
at the ceiling.

After an hour of turmoil he could wait no longer. He left his room and edged round to the veranda. He crept on to it and looked into the kitchen. It was empty. He eased open the screen-door and
crept into the pantry. He took a large knife and slid it under his shirt. Then he crept outside.